A grain of
wheat for a decade or more
Until a farmer took it out of the store
He planted the grain somewhere in his farm
Tended to the soil, kept away from harm
The grain of wheat somehow just knew
Without instruction spontaneously grew
Fulfilled its fate, brought forth more wheat
The passage of time wheat could not defeat.
Even a decade of stillness and rest
Wheat of potency did not divest
Sprouting and growth was weeds innate gift
Through passing of time, this gift did not drift.

Talent or fate, our innate gift
Is always within, waiting for a shift
Too many years, idly we may drift
But when we shift, our gift will uplift.
Have faith in your gift, your wisdom innate
Before you pass on, your life consummate.